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How did I get to the point of actually caring about World Cup soccer? In many ways, it was a matter of allowing the sport to put its best foot forward.

Growing up in Michigan in the 1970s, soccer was merely a niche activity compared to the "big four" of football, baseball, basketball and hockey. We cared about Lions and Tigers and rooting against the Bears, not even giving a thought to the existence of Manchester United or even the U.S. national team.

I don't recall any of my friends playing youth soccer (as so many do in Sioux Falls these days), and we certainly didn't follow the sport as fans or know many of the players.

Brazilian legend Pele was a household name as a transcendent world celebrity, but the only American soccer player we knew was Kyle Rote, Jr., immortalized by a Sports Illustrated poster that showed him playing with something called the Dallas Tornado.

If you displayed that in your room instead of the iconic Farrah Fawcett poster, you were basically asking to be ostracized.

The North American Soccer League was trying to capture America's attention at the time, and I remember attending a Detroit Express game at the Pontiac Silverdome in 1978, soon after the team signed English star Trevor Francis.

There were maybe 5,000 people in a football stadium that seated 80,000, and the old-school AstroTurf wasn't suited for soccer. Mainly I walked around with my buddies snickering at the exotic action unfolding in front of us, like a field trip to an anthropology exhibit.

There was a World Cup played that year, but it may as well have been an obscure Middle East military conflict for all that we followed it. We were crazy about sports, but soccer wasn't part of the scene. It gave America nothing to rally around.

From 1954-86, nine consecutive tournaments over the span of nearly half a century, the United States failed to qualify for the quadrennial World Cup, making it easier for casual fans to ignore the sport.

After finally breaking through in 1990, the United States hosted the World Cup in 1994 and started to light a spark. With emerging stars such as Eric Wynalda and Alexi Lalas, the American team made the round of 16, facing off with eventual champion Brazil on July 4 and losing heartbreaking 1-0 decision at Stanford Stadium.

I lived in Sioux Falls by then and watched the game at Champps, where a small but loyal group of followers tried to be festive but were ultimately disheartened at being held scoreless in the biggest U.S. match ever played on American soil.

Just another punch line for a game still gaining ground: All that buildup and not a single goal to cheer to about.

That game, however, drew the largest domestic TV audience to ever watch a soccer game at the time, and that 1994 World Cup helped the sport find its footing in America.

My personal appreciation for soccer reached a new level when I became a father and my kids started playing sports. In Sioux Falls, like many other communities, soccer serves as a gateway to athletic participation at the youth level, since children are able to run around, kick a ball and consume orange slices soon after emerging from the womb.

It didn't take long before I was sucked into coaching, which mandated that I get up to speed on some of the rules and skill techniques that make the sport unique.

In 4-on-4 micro soccer, I leaned on my hockey background and simply had a center and two wingers up front with a defensemen guarding the net, and we won many games with an aggressive forechecking system (along with some subtle recruiting).

For those who care to learn, the nature of corner kicks, throw-ins, indirect free kicks and even offsides become less arcane and more fundamental as your fondness for the sport grows.

Appreciating the importance of spacing and the realization that the ball doesn't always have to be kicked forward is usually a sign that a player or coach has seen the light, and the "beautiful game" becomes watchable, even exhilarating.

Four years ago, I returned to Champps to watch some of the 2010 World Cup, this time bringing my family along and meeting members of the local chapter of the American Outlaws, a nationally organized fan group that was starting to take shape in Sioux Falls.

Alas, I was on the golf course for Landon Donovan's dramatic goal to get the U.S. into the knockout round, and my foursome was nearly escorted from Willow Run for rowdy behavior after learning of Donovan's heroics on our smartphones.

For the round of 16 game against Ghana that year, my kids donned red, white and blue finery and cheered loudly during a gut-wrenching loss in extra time, ending America's hopes (yet again) for a monumental breakthrough.

Growing pains remain, such as the time the American Outlaws were turned away from their designated area at now-defunct Champps in favor of a "Teen Mom" viewing party.

For the sport as a whole, though, progress is simple to see.

Not only does Sioux Falls have 6,000 kids involved in youth soccer, but this year's World Cup was greeted by a more widespread and well-informed level of American fan interest than ever before.

The American Outlaws have a new home base at the Gateway Lounge, which was packed for Monday's U.S. opener against, you guessed it, Ghana.

All the flags, scarves and patriotic songs served notice that this was far from a niche crowd, and the sonic boom that occurred after Clint Dempsey's early goal (and the later game-winner on a header by John Brooks) would have made several English pubs proud.

There was a lone Ghana fan draped in the national flag sulking around the establishment, occasionally posing for pictures, and my wife apparently made a wager with him in the parking lot, though nothing ever came of it.

His name was Steve, which seemed vaguely disappointing.

As he walked by our table late in the match, after a desultory effort by the Americans had miraculously turned into a hope-filled triumph, my 9-year old son took a long look at him and declared, "Poor Steve."

Poor Steve, indeed.

This time around, the nature of American soccer fandom is not to be chuckled at, but respected and even feared.

Before the World Cup began, my son talked about wanting a Cristiano Ronaldo jersey but settled for American star Clint Dempsey, mainly because I forbid him from wearing enemy colors when the U.S. faces Portugal on Sunday.

That became a running joke with the Outlaws, with several members joking about what might happen if he showed up supporting Ronaldo.

He took it in stride and enjoyed the banter, soaking up the soccer talk even though he still prefers to play and watch more "mainstream" sports.

I thought back to myself at the same age and how I wouldn't have known or even cared what soccer jersey to wear, and the difference in exposure was striking.

At some point we need to stop fighting against the emergence of soccer and go with the flow. If it gives us something to rally around as a nation rather than the latest Kardashian drama, what could be wrong with it?

The dissenting voices that mock the sport's low-scoring pace and feigned injuries seem to come with less vigor and volume these days, and that's a victory in itself.

If the U.S. team, playing without top scorer Jozy Altidore, finds a way to beat Portugal and advance to the knockout round of the World Cup, the star-spangled spectacle might just sweep us all of our feet.